This came to me as I walked out shirtless and barefoot through a warm mountain sunset and listened to the elk speak their ancient language to each other.

]]>https://rowdycreator.wordpress.com/2012/06/23/a-barefoot-meditation/feed/5rowdycreatorImageFarewell Summer…Farewell, Dadhttps://rowdycreator.wordpress.com/2011/09/26/farewell-summer-farewell-dad/
https://rowdycreator.wordpress.com/2011/09/26/farewell-summer-farewell-dad/#commentsMon, 26 Sep 2011 19:00:40 +0000http://rowdycreator.wordpress.com/?p=515]]>About this time last year I sat beneath the shade of a tree in my front yard and devoured Ray Bradbury’s long awaited Farewell Summer (sequel to his outrageously popular Dandelion Wine). It is a beautiful book–an allegory about youth and aging, life and death, and the passing seasons.

I called my father later that day. “Hey, dad,” I said, “I think you’ll really enjoy this book.” I am a book lover and often get too enthusiastic about sharing them with other people. My father, quite a reader himself, didn’t always enjoy the same things I did but would sometimes humor me by reading one of my recommendations.

On a warm evening a couple of weeks later, my cell phone buzzed. I squinted at the little screen: my brother, Isaac, calling. We didn’t talk often–usually exchanged text messages a couple times per week.

“Hello?” I said.
“Hey, Jake,” he said and silence stretched out between us for several long seconds.
“How are you doing, Isaac?”
“Ah, man… brother… Dad died,” he said finally.

The roof and walls seemed to collapse around me in that moment. I felt as if I had somersaulted into outer space–blind-folded…all the oxygen squeezed from my body. How could this be? Last time I talked with him, my father seemed healthy and more peaceful than ever.

But it was. Like a window suddenly slamming shut on a clear late-summer sunset, my father was gone.

The next few days blurred past on fast-forward. My wife and I flew back to Idaho and sat with my grieving family. Together we visited dad’s little cottage–the unfinished project-house he had lived in for several years.

Like my father’s life, this house had been a source of major frustration for him. He was a fine craftsman–an artist, really–and his sense of perfection drove him to tear everything down to the studs. Not satisfied with a respectable veneer, my Dad struggled hard with life. The answers which brought comfort to most men did nothing for him. Making a living, owning fine things, being a popular person–none of these were his top priorities. Sometimes his own lack of material ambition bothered him. I could see that as I walked through his house for the last time. He had short motivational notes taped to the mirror and the refrigerator. For the first time I finally understood how hard he had to work at life–things most would take for granted didn’t come easily to my father.

After spending time in his bedroom, looking at his stacks of books and a vase of dried lavendar, I wandered into the kitchen. The counters were covered with sawdust and tools. On a chair, I saw his backpack–the same one he used to bring with him when he stayed overnight at my house. Unzipping it, I pulled out a towel and noticed a book packed in between his folded clothes and shaving kit.

I tugged it free and turned it over.Farewell Summer lay there in my hands. I took a deep breath and straightened up. For just a moment sure I felt Dad’s arm around my shoulders, I let the tears fall where they may. How absolutely fitting was it that he and I shared this book? The last one he ever read spoke of life’s beauty, of acceptance, of inevitable change and of death.

One year later, I write these words filled with gratitude for the many lessons my father taught during our time together. Like seeds dormant until their time has come, these realizations continue to sprout in surprising ways.

I learned from him that Life is, Itself, the deepest meditation, the highest art, the grandest journey…

Tao #28

Be aware of your masculine nature;But by keeping the feminine way,You shall be to the world like a canyon,Where the Virtue eternal abides,And go back to become as a child.

Be aware of the white all around you;But rememb’ring the black that is there,You shall be to the world like a tester,Whom the Virtue eternal, unerring,Redirects to the infinite past.

Be aware of your glory and honor;But in never relinquishing shame,You shall be to the world like a valley,Where Virtue eternal, sufficient,Sends you back to the Virginal Block.

When the Virginal Block is asunder,And is made into several tools,To the ends of the Wise Man directed,They become then his chief officers:For “The Master himself does not carve.”

I am reading through the Tao Te Ching (The Way of Life). This is a set of eighty-one simple poems ascribed to the ancient mystic, Lao Tzu. There has been much debate about the actual person of this teacher–and who it might have been who penned the words which were eventually compiled into what is known as the Tao Te Ching. Regardless of that, I am inspired by the powerful paradoxes and glimpses of the Unspeakable, Un-Boxable contained in these short poems.

#28 speaks of the universal reality of light & darkness. Most of us have been brought up with an understanding of a great cosmic struggle–a war between “good” and “evil”.

In this teaching, Lao Tzu reveals that the Way of Life transcends the apparent conflict. He shows us that consciousness is indeed comprised of both light and shadow, triumph and “shame”. By “becoming as a child”, we greet the experience of everything with fresh wonder. No longer must we endure an inner war–the battle of contradictory forces.

brilliant art of M.C. Escher

Look at the yin-yang symbol. See how the dark and light are entwined? See how they roll together within a circle–that sigil of infinity and eternity?

By embracing everything, we return to the innocent simplicity of childhood. We shed our judgments of how life must be, and surrender to the flow of All That Is. Dancing, spinning, tasting and testing–we emerge as masters of the paradox. In this is a whole new power and freedom and peace.

Are you willing to imagine yourself as both a still valley and a bursting volcano? Such is The Way of Life.

Pssst… I can read your mind. You’re wondering “…how does this make any difference in my life today?” It’s all very practical, really. When we loosen our perceptions, lighten our grasp…blink our eyes into a new way of seeing, all of life becomes a grand adventure. Yes, I showed up in a man’s body, but I cannot be defined as merely male. Yes, I am delighted by the work I do in the world, but I am not only what I do. I am free (as are you) to observe everything with amazement.

“I’ve come to just treasure the experience of life…all of it…in all its raw, windswept, sunrise-laden, barefoot shit and splendor”

~ 11 ~

Thirty spokes will convergeIn the hub of a wheel;But the use of the cartWill depend on the partOf the hub that is void.

With a wall all aroundA clay bowl is molded;But the use of the bowlWill depend on the partOf the bowl that is void.

Cut out windows and doorsIn the house as you build;But the use of the houseWill depend on the spaceIn the walls that is void.

So advantage is hadFrom whatever is there;But usefulness risesFrom whatever is not.

We live in a world which values usefulness. Doing is emphasized over being; material substance over spiritual properties.

As I meditate on Tao, a new understanding of no-thing emerges. The walls of the house are useful because of the empty space they enclose. A bowl improves our lives because of its capacity for emptiness. All the spokes of a wheel converge around a hollow hub.

Why do we fear silence…stillness…nothingness? We focus on building useful house walls, bowl-sides and wheel spokes and often forget that these are good, but they are nothing–not useful–without the empty space.

Each day of our lives will be multiplied in joy and usefulness if we find and celebrate the inner space of silence, peace and true power. During a recent interview with Matt Kahn, he said, “…if you want to know the answer to any question in life, go ask a tree. It will answer you with silence.” Yes!

How do you experience this nameless, formless Tao presence? I’d love to share in your meditations–comment below.

Right-click this picture and save the link as MP3 to download recording

I invited Matt Kahn to join me on the “Thank God It’s Friday” show this week. Years ago someone gave me a cd of his program titled Earth Angels. I have listened to it probably 100 times and have been deeply affected by the simple, powerful wisdom he shares.

Matt is a mystic. That word might immediately conjure a picture in your mind much like the one at the top of this article–some solitary figure sitting on a mountaintop, basking in radiant silence. From the moment Matt came on the air, he was quite different from what you might expect.

I hope you’ll take the time to listen to my conversation with this unusual young man. He tells the story of his extraordinary experiences as a small child which have led to a life of sharing universal wisdom.

Like modern teachers Echkart Tolle and Byron Katie, Matt cuts through the complex traditions of religion and opens a window of insight which is simple, immediate and feels like a deep breath of pure mountain air.

I so enjoyed the light-hearted presence Matt radiates. We discussed material from his soon-to-be-released book, “Effortless Freedom”. I offered him questions from the audience about life, addiction, resentment, and spirituality; he responded with laughter and spontaneous expressions of wisdom. You are now invited to enjoy this conversation via MP3 download: Click here to listen online or save to your audio device.

Right-click on this picture & select “Save As” to download the MP3 of “TGIF” radio show from 7/29

My guest, Harmon Hathaway, is a breath of fresh air. He’s been helping people correct physical problems since the 1960’s. He founded the American Yoga Foundation, is an author, speaker and international teacher. He runs a 130-acre retreat in the Catskill Mountains. Over the years he has worked with many professional athletes and entertainment notables. You might expect someone with his experience and credentials to take his work very seriously. In fact, I found Harmon to be full of friendliness, humility and good humor.

Mr. Hathaway talked about:

The triangle of body, speech & mind

Breathing without dogma

Using our body as a natural barometer for insight

How to use breathing & alignment to correct physical problems.

Rather than just talk about concepts and theories, Harmon walked the “Thank God It’s Friday” radio audience through basic alignment and breathing exercises.

You are invited to download and listen to this interview with a wise old master of healing.

Do something. Right now, close your eyes…take a deep breath. Now, open them and look around. Look up at your ceiling. Notice the walls of the room in which you’re sitting. Glance down at the tiles on the floor under your feet (you ARE reading this in your bathroom, aren’t you?). Now look back at the computer screen.

Think for a moment… What do you see?

Unless you’re somehow receiving this information across the astral planes while wading in a mountain lake, you are surrounded by boxes. You’re sitting in a room-box, staring into a box-shaped screen. Boxes, boxes…everywhere. Drive down the road and allow your eyes to take in the shapes of modern civilization. With few exceptions, we have built a world full of boxes.

How did we come to live in a box when the natural world describes itself mostly in circles, arches and gentle curves?

What is a circle and why have we chosen to create our realities inside of right-angles? The circle is deeply imprinted in human consciousness. Our lives begin inside a rounded belly-nest, we enter the world through the round birth-canal portal, and our lips are immediately pressed to mother’s round breasts for our first warm meal.

Shortly thereafter we are thrust into a series of boxes. They wrap us in a blanket and tuck us in a tiny crib where we dream of floating in the dark, warm womb-water—only to awaken in terror at the new feeling of separation from our Mother Source.

Life goes on. The boxes get larger. A bedroom of our own, perhaps. The fenced yard. The schoolroom. Then it’s time to venture into the world. Nervous, we sit in the job interview room anticipating this next step into freedom and success. Then, for decades of working years, it’s just one box after another—stockroom, cubicle, lab, office-with-a-door, and (maybe if you’re very “lucky”) the corner office with big windows through which you can watch wind tousle the hair of trees outside.

We don’t see the invisible boxes which fold neatly around and above us. Unconsciously, we accept the roles, the beliefs…the prescribed path. They form the construct of life-as-we-know-it. We come to value these boxes—both visible and imaginary. Our houses, our careers, our politics, our religion. We cling to them. We feel safe within their walls and accumulate stuff with which to fill their emptiness.

And why not? Boxes aren’t bad things. They are useful containers. They are easy to stack into tidy rows. They help us keep life organized.

So what’s this fixation on geometric shapes? Why should we pay attention to circles? How is any of this going to translate into a new pool in the backyard?

First, you don’t want your own pool. You just really don’t. Make friends with someone who already has one or sneak over the fence at Holiday Inn and swim for free. But, I digress…

Human beings are unique on earth as “semantics-binding” creatures. We use symbols (words, pictures, numbers, etc.) to create a map and overlay it on an immense flow of data. This helps us make sense of what we call life. Deep in our primal consciousness sleep powerful symbols laden with meanings we don’t understand on a rational level. We can feel them, though. They show up in odd ways and remind us in ancient whispers that we are much more powerful, complex and mysterious beings than we imagine.

The circle is one such primitive reminder.

Pretend with me for a moment that right there in front of us is a translucent spiral staircase leading upward to the sky. Go ahead, you start the climb; I’m right behind you. Higher and higher we ascend…above the treetops, above the mountains, through the thin air and tingling ice-crystal clouds.

Look down. What do you see?

A round earth–one vast circle of blue and green and brown—lies beneath us. From this vantage point we can’t even see the tiny Lego-cities clustered around seaports and rivers. We can’t see the boxes mankind has imposed upon the surface of this great globe. Look up. See the smiling sun? The demure moon? The sparkling stars? From here, the universe and everything in it is whole and round. The flow of Life moves through it all in ceaseless circling tides.

The circle is a symbol of inclusive wholeness. What could be more desirable to our isolated modern psyche than enjoying the bliss of health and joyful community? What if we could push away from our solitary immersion in constant motion, walk outside our box and engage in life’s ecstatic dance with humankind again? What if we could re-member the fractured, repressed and terrifyingly beautiful shards of ourselves—piece them together once again into a glorious mandala of Authentic Self?

I hear you thinking, “Wonderful. That sounds great. How do we do it, though?”

There’s not one easy answer…no silver bullet or magic pill. Perhaps it all begins with imagination. If I can imag-ine (see and feel a picture) of a different way of being, then I can allow myself to flow in that direction. I need not force or push, but simply begin to draw the beauty of this new scene inside myself. Let it burrow down into the fallow soil of my soul, germinate and blossom from within. With each aware breath, feel the reality of a healed and radiant life and know that it is available right now. We don’t have to wait to win the lottery, or for retirement, nor even for some distant heaven.

Bringing circle energy into our lives is part remembering how to be and part learning what to do. Support your awareness with symbols and actions. Build something round—a campfire, a delicious meal, a flower bed. Gather other people and enjoy it with them. Walk outside as often as possible and sit beneath the circle of shade from a big tree. Press your back against its round trunk and feel the curving earth beneath you. Breathe the good air, slow and long…then release it. Imagine that with each cycle of breath you are helping weave the unfathomably miraculous web of life.

Later, when it’s time to return to one box or another, take your re-balanced consciousness with you like an inner flower. Round out the edges of your conversation with fresh compassion. Learn to graciously give and receive.

Also, start to notice your boxes. There’s no need to fight them or destroy them. Simply observe where they show up and how they hold you apart from other people—how they enclose your adventurous nature as it seeks to sally forth a’ questing into life. Look for ways to step outside these boxes and experience yourself under the blue, blue sky and radiant sunshine of All That Is.

You are, in truth, not an isolated part of some rusting machine but an integrally connected and necessary cell in the One Living Whole.

(P.S. I am inspired to write this in part by the work of Rachel Ross & Lars Chose who help people “live in the round” with their amazing Mandala Homes. Please take a look at these magnificent structures!)

“All the world’s a stage,And all the men and women merely players;They have their exits and their entrances…” ~ Shakespeare

My phone buzzed late last night. It was a text message from a friend who knows I never watch TV news: Osama Bin Laden is dead!

I was surprised by my own lack of interest in this announcement. Certainly it’s momentous in its own way. A powerful player has been ejected from the arena of world affairs. A host of families who lost loved ones in the 9/11 attacks no doubt feel a sense of great relief.

So, it isn’t a small thing. No it’s not.

Take a moment, though, and visualize with me this earth-stage if you will. Imagine the grand drama we are all putting on for each other–complete with black villains, shining heroes…fools & charlatans, prophets & kings.

We’ve killed a villain. Now what?

Have we eliminated violence? Have we solved anything in a permanent way? I’m not here to judge the right-ness or wrong-ness of this situation. My hands are not raised in victory or defense for either side.

Instead, I hold space for all of us here on earth. We are, as Shakespeare said, merely players on a stage. Most of the world’s population is unconsciously participating in the vast drama. We throw ourselves into battle, we defend our turf, we play the unexamined roles assigned to us.

Until… Until we awaken to the knowledge that all humans are part of one family. We are gathered in a circle around this globe. Ever tighter the circle grows, ever closer we draw together. We can no longer ignore each other’s voices in this crowded theater.

The time has come, my friends. We are called upon to learn new ways of being. Can we do it?Yes.Will we do it?That question still remains.

So, for now, the grand act continues. If “all the world’s a stage,
and all the men and women merely players…”, what role will you play? You can choose your part, you know.

Why not become a peace-monger?

My friend, Ian Lawton, wrote a beautifully insightful article about this on his “Soulseeds” website. Be sure to check out “No Hell Below Us”

Brown. Dry. The sky hung over the landscape heavily. Like a great sack of leaden balls ready to burst and rain down death. A very little light glowed from the earth and sky, but it was an unhealthy, rotten luminescence.

Across the scorched plains a few animals could be seen. Scarecrow cattle gnawed at fence posts or scuffed the crackling turf with their hoofs. A small pool of dark water gleamed in the distance. On the water’s brink, animal bones lay scattered. One skeleton of a cow stood as if it died with its muzzle in the pool. A vulture hunched on its shoulder bones.

A town of sorts was drawn out in a shallow valley. There was a small store on one end of town. Its porch was the local Parthenon. Men from all over the valley gathered there to talk. Upon close inspection, the men had a strange and forbidding aspect. like the closed door of a tomb. On each of their faces was the mark of death. Oddly enough, the town had an air of frantic gaiety to it. Several saloons were operating at fever pitch and people streamed from one to another, laughing and shouting. Inside, gamblers cheated and robbed the people of their money. What little they had left, they spent to drink great quantities of the brews and distillations the saloon keeper sold at exorbitant prices. They all seemed desperate to forget their condition. As if they could forestall the coming of the dark shadow on the horizon by incessant merriment.

Back on the store porch, the men were more sober. Discussing their plight in dejected tones. They glanced at each other from corners of their eyes and witnessed what destruction had been wreaked upon their bodies by the plague. The bones of their faces jutted against the skin and their eyes peered hollowly from the sockets. They attempted light banter, but eventually came back heavily to the more obvious topic.

In the street, a small group followed the bearers of a coffin. The watchers on the porch looked briefly and resumed the debate. It was too common. The cemetery held greater numbers than could be counted among the living.

Behind the houses and in the shadows, dark things were done. Often and often a scream would rise and a body would slump out into the street; dead from some blow or cut. The prison was filled with desperate people waiting for death or release–which was much the same thing.

For many passages of time this state continued, and it all grew more frightful by the year. One day, there came to the streets of the town a man. He was a stranger to all, but was curiously attractive. He made his way through the dust of the streets and came to the store and its porch.

The men turned their faces to him and he smiled. They looked at each other in question for the reason of his joy. When they looked back again, they beheld how different he was. His face was full and glowed with health. His body was straight and the muscles of him pushed against his clothes. He seemed at any moment ready to laugh for joy.

The leader of the group stepped down before the man and held out his hand.
“Sir, we welcome you to our town and bid you good health.” The stranger threw back his head and shouted with delight. “You wish me health? Why, man — and all of you — that is why I have come. For your health.”

So saying, he held up a glass. In it was the clearest water any of them had ever seen. It fairly danced of its own in the cup. The man tilted his head back and drained the liquid. He held both hands in the air and drew deep breaths as if savoring some precious moment of life.

Great amazement came over the watchers on the porch. Their leader spoke again.
“Good sir, what is it you have? You seem so alive and so…well. We would know your secret.”
The man seemed to glow as he replied.
“Ah, it is no secret at all, but free for all to know. I have just recently found a great treasure. Something that you must see and taste for yourself. It’s a gift. I was on a long journey across the plains in search of a cure for all of this … this death. Many days I walked and the shoes had worn from my feet. The last day was the worst. I had used all of my food and was so weak that I was forced to crawl. The shadows of vultures had begun to make circles on the sand around me and there were times when I had to stop for several minutes to regain my strength. I had just reached the crest of a hill and knew I wouldn’t make it through another hour. Suddenly there appeared what I thought was a hallucination. In the middle of nowhere, a tree was growing and its branches made a canopy of shade. I half rolled, half crawled down to its shelter. I think I fell asleep. Next I knew, I was on my back on a carpet of thick, cool grass, looking up through the branches of the tree. I rolled over and saw the most amazing thing. Right out of the roots of the tree was a spring of water. It flowed into the grass and watered the whole circle. I had no idea who had dug this fountain out, if any man had, but lost no time in falling on my face and drinking great draughts of it.”

The men on the porch had ceased their whittling and were leaning over the rail to hear. The man continued.

“Now, before I drank of the water, I looked and felt just like you do. My skin was withered and I was weak. My hair was slipping from my head. Each day I felt myself moving closer and closer to the final thing. I don’t know what happened at the spring exactly. All I know is that everything changed the moment I drank from it. Immediately I felt life flowing back into my arms and legs. The edges of death melted away from my vision and I was strong. I spent a day or so there under the tree. Soon I realized that it wouldn’t do for me to enjoy this alone. I climbed the tree and looked over the plain. I could just see the smoke of your town. I made haste and filled my canteen with the water for the walk. It took me just a day to come here. The water you saw me drink is the last I had with me. I wanted to come and tell my story so you will go back with me and drink for yourselves. I know it will still be there and I’m sure you all can be free of this horrible plague. As I said, I was at least as sick from it as any of you are, and look at me now!”

Several of the men came down into the street and felt of the stranger. They walked around him and marveled at the difference between him and themselves. He seemed impatient to be off and began to move back the way he had come. The leader stopped him.

“Sir, you tell a good tale. You seem to have great news for everyone. How do we know that you weren’t already a healthy man who came to mock us and lead us out into the desert to our death? Moreover, it sounds too good to be true. Look around you. Everyone in this town has the plague. All of our fathers and mothers and their parents had it. How is it that less than a day’s journey away is a stream that can magically cure all of our ills, yet we never heard of it before? I like the looks of you, but your tidings I cannot receive. I do not know what these men will do, but I will stay here. I despise the plague but have never known anything else. At least I will not perish for lack of food while I stay close to this store.”

The men looked at one another. Most of them nodded agreement to the words of their leader. Only one, the oldest in the group, stepped forward.

“I will go. There is nothing I have to lose. My wife and children have already died and I have maybe a year or two left. All my life here has been miserable. Every day I have looked at the horizon and have seen the shadow move closer to me.” He held up his arm. “Look at this. I am old and useless. If even half of what this stranger says is true, I may live the last days of my life in health.”

The stranger half turned and smiled. He beckoned with his hand. “Come then. Let’s be going.”
They started off, the young man supporting the old man.

It had happened. The old man went back to his town and spread the news. He was like a new person. He stood straight. His old, dull eyes sparkled with life. He didn’t talk about death anymore.

After that, it went like wildfire. Every town had several who journeyed to the spring. Some people filled casks with the water and carried it back to their cities for those too ill to travel. Everyone who drank the water was healed. They grew strong and happy. As many as came, there was more than enough to go around. Still, many refused to drink. They said it was all too easy. It didn’t cost anything, they didn’t have to work for it, and it didn’t make sense anyway.

Soon, groups began to form so that the water could be administered efficiently. They found that they could put the water in bottles and carry it over great distances to help those in need. This was good. More and more people learned of the cure for their ailment and drank. The groups grew more organized and developed names for themselves. They even began labeling the bottles of water with their brand names. This was still not a problem, because the water itself was undiluted. Everywhere it was poured the grass grew green and life sprang up.

The brand names became more defined over time. Each group with its brand had a favored path to the spring. The groups often argued bitterly over the correct route and some even went to war against the others, attempting to protect their particular path and to force the others to use the same. Some groups thought to sell their brand of bottled water for money. Inexplicably, the effectiveness of the cure was lost in the process.

Most groups just continued to give away the water; grateful for the chance to share what had given them a new life. Years went by and many associations built great structures in which to store their brand of the water. They would meet there and talk about how they had found the cure. According to the charters they were to bring people who had not yet drunk so that they, too, could be cured. Over time, many people had heard about the water and many had been cured. Fewer came to the storehouses who had never before drunk.

Still they bottled and labeled the water. Somewhere, at some point, someone added something to the water before bottling it. They thought it would taste better or help more. In fact, almost every group whose purpose it was to distribute the water began to mix their own special blend. For awhile, the water still did what it was supposed to. The groups were very cautious to keep the ratio of pure water to private potion high.

As most things go, the mixtures began to contain less and less of the pure essence of the spring. It became very important to the organizations that their members use only their brand, and that their brand be distinct from the others. They formed committees and made elaborate rules. Still, the spring flowed out and watered the grass beneath the tree. Few ever ventured directly to it for a drink as it sprang from the ground. In fact, most of the groups tried to ensure that people simply came to their storehouses instead of making the trip.

Two or three generations passed. The children and grandchildren of the people who journeyed to the spring had never been there. The elders tried to make sure their heirs made the trip, but eventually it came to pass that they took a final journey — happy and healthy. Almost all of the children and most of the grandchildren continued visits to the storehouses. The problem was that the water of most groups eventually contained little or none of the real thing.

Sickness began to creep back in. Some felt more at home with the people who had never drunk of the water. They would visit the dilapidated saloons and sit on the porches of stores with other victims of the plague and wonder why they felt so ill. Wonder why all the bottled water they drank didn’t seem to make them as happy and healthy as it had made their ancestors. Wonder why they felt the shadow creeping up from the horizon toward them. Wonder why they bothered to visit the storehouse and drink the mixtures now at all.

——————————————————————————————————————–

An old man strode into the town. He stopped before the store and lifted his hand in greeting to the people gathered there. None of them recognized him. If their grandfathers were still living, they would have known the light in his eyes. They would have remembered the first time he came and drank a glass of liquid crystal before them. But these people didn’t know him. They only saw that he had a special aliveness to him, and they envied him that. He had what the leaders of their respective storehouse groups said was possible to have.

He smiled at the pitiful assembly. The spirit was gone from most of them. Many looked just like the people who never left the saloon for a drink of the spring. The shadow was in their eyes. He spoke.

“My children. I first came to this town many years ago. Most of you weren’t yet born. I had just had my first drink from the spring that flows not a day’s journey from here. I was young and strong, and my life had just been given to back to me. There are no words to tell you what joy each moment was, and is. Look at me. All these years, and I still bear no marks from the plague that I once had. Let me say to you, ‘the spring still flows free’. I have walked through these streets and watched many of you going in to the storehouses where the water of the spring is kept and dispensed. I have stood in the doorways and watched you drinking your different brands. Over the years I have seen less and less of the spring find its way into your bottles. Many of you are wondering why the spring water has failed you. I want you to know that the spring has not failed. I was there just this morning and drank again with my face buried in it. You may see the drops of it in my beard still. I took a young friend with me this morning. He was sick. He had the plague so that he was soon to die. I had to carry him to the tree. When we got there, he crawled the last two or three feet and plunged his whole head in. He isn’t with me now because I last saw him running back to his town to lead his wife and children out to the spring.”

The sun was setting behind the old man. His white hair glowed with the orange rays and became a golden crown on his head. He seemed to grow translucent, as though to fade into the light. Soon the only thing that was visible was his arm. It was shining with a stunning brilliance as it pointed the way back toward the tree with its gushing spring. His voice sounded once more as the light faded.

“My children, the answer lies not in all the mixtures and bottled water. Nor will you be satisfied by trying to ignore the plague and its slow death. The answer for you is in the spring. There you will find life and health. I go now, but I will be watching you. Go to the spring. Go to the Spring.”

The sun blazed out with its last glory. Long shadows spread from the branches of a distant tree, and a close observer could see the sparkle of water beneath.